Invictus
by River Eyes
Summary: After Rin's lover is brutally slain, she decides to risk her life to find the ghouls responsible. Driven by grief, rage, and a brutal power, this path leads her through the underworld of Tokyo's ghoul society and directly into conflict with a mysterious organization known only as 'the Clowns.' Meanwhile, Uta seems to take great pleasure in the spectacle of chaos caused by her pain.
1. If Only

**Hey guys, don't mind me. Just messing around with some ideas for a new story. Don't know if I'll continue this or not; thoughts/opinions from readers would be appreciated to help me decide. Thank you!**

 _If only._

 _If only._

It's strange when you really think about it, I've decided. The future is infinitely undetermined. A hundred million possible outcomes, every second of every day. And yet, out of all those possibilities, somehow they all end up condensed into one: one singular outcome as the future metamorphoses into a brief, elusive present. And then it's over and I'm left staring behind me at a path already tread, thinking over all the other ways that path might have gone.

If only they hadn't canceled school that day. Professional development could have waited, couldn't it? She would have been there, with her students, instead of at home when it happened.

If only I hadn't gone out to the street vendors to buy donburi and miso soup. She wanted miso soup from that vendor, had been craving it for a while. He sold the best in the district. An old family recipe. I wanted some too. It was cold that afternoon, and I offered to walk down to his stall and bring some back for both of us. We were going to cuddle on the futon and eat our steaming meals and watch a movie. A little impromptu celebration, because we never got to spend time together like this on weekdays. Our schedules were so busy back then.

Why didn't I ask her to walk down there with me? I know why. Because it was cold and I didn't want to make her get up from where she was snuggled on the futon, under the blanket, looking half-asleep and content as a cat. That's why I offered to go myself, to bring back some warm food. If only I had made her come with me.

If only the apartment manager hadn't let those men inside the building. He later said there had been nothing suspicious about them. Well-dressed and orderly. They had expressed an interest in renting there, and the manager had obligingly taken them upstairs to show them around some of the vacant apartments. They knocked him unconscious and left him lying in one of the bathtubs.

If only they had eaten him instead! Or (I know how wrong it is to think it, but everything is wrong these days) eaten someone else, anyone else. Any one of the 143 other tenants present in the building at the time of the attack. They managed to tear their way through most of the people on our floor by the time the police and the CCG showed up. They didn't even eat most of them. They just killed them. The people on the floor below heard the screams and sounded the alarm.

If only the police had restored order more quickly while the remaining residents rushed to evacuate. If they had sealed off the area faster, created checkpoints and filtered people through, maybe the ghouls wouldn't have managed to return to the vacant apartment, change into clean clothes, and slip right through the line of wailing sirens and screaming humans. Just walk away as if what they'd done had been nothing to them. Another day, another meal.

If only I had gotten there sooner. The paramedics said she was alive for a few minutes after they found her in our apartment. Alive despite the fact that those men, those ghouls, those _monsters_ had taken her arms and legs and broken them backward at the joints, so she couldn't struggle while they fed on the flesh of her limbs. Her body. The arms she used to drape around me late at night. The legs she always said were chubby, fat. She was embarrassed to wear a skirt around anyone but me. The little curve of flesh between her collarbone and shoulder blade that was the perfect softness for resting my head on while we were dancing. Her body that was hers and that she shared only with me. They ate it up like ravenous dogs. I could smell her blood from the street. The police tried to prevent me from entering the building. The goddamn fools. They were worried about stopping people from going in when they should have been scouring the area to make sure her murderers didn't get out! When I finally forced my way inside, I ran up five flights of stairs and through the broken-down door of our apartment. It was too late. All that was left was her body. I remember how the paramedics were shaking so badly they couldn't get to their feet. They were crawling around on the floor, through the wreckage, looking for a sheet, a jacket, something to cover her with. But it was too late for that as well. I saw everything. I saw everything, and I collapsed in the doorway and screamed and screamed and screamed. I don't remember when I stopped screaming and passed out. I don't remember much about what happened after that, or where I was, or whose hands guided me from room to room and made me food and took it away from me uneaten. Sometimes I think I'm still screaming, like I never stopped. Perhaps I've gotten so used to the sound that I hardly notice anymore.

I do remember some things. I moved out of that apartment building. I moved out of the entire ward, back in with my former foster mother. The woman who had taken care of me since I was ten, who gave me her family name even after I came out to her when I was fourteen. It was her hands that gripped my shoulders during the funeral, her hands that tried numbly to wipe away my tears late at night. It was her voice that coaxed me to _eat something, anything,_ that reassured me over and over that it wasn't my fault. I never would have survived those first few months without her.

Now it's been seven months. Seven months almost to the day since I left _her_ napping on the futon to go buy fucking miso soup from the street vendor. I haven't touched miso since that day. Even thinking about it makes me sick. But it's been seven months now, and my Tokyo friends and mother's friends from the old neighborhood have started talking to me about healing. Finding peace. Moving on. It's not that I don't want to heal. I'd do almost anything to be rid of this vicious, gaping hole in my chest. Walking around every day like a war casualty. I've tried doing the things they say will help. Counseling. Keeping a journal. Meditation. Even dabbling in religion. None of it lets me sleep at night. Nothing takes away the image of her lying there, her limbs all bent the wrong way like a broken doll, gushing blood from every inch of ripped-off skin. Her eyes still open, her face untouched. She wore such a sad expression, lying there, as if in her final moments she thought about all the things she'd wanted to do with her life and realized they would never happen.

Move on? Be happy again? Not likely. For someone like me to find happiness even once in my life was all but impossible, and yet, it happened. What are the chances it could ever happen again? And how could I let it? Permit someone else to love me when my heart is full of _her_ and my brain is full of _her_ and my closet is still filled with her old clothes and my bookshelf with her books? I've kept almost everything. I can't give it away, and when I moved out of my foster mother's home two months ago, I took it with me. It surrounds me every day.

Perhaps that's why I had to come here. Away from it all, to the river where we used to spend our summer evenings. We were in high school then, dating secretly under the guise of being 'friends.' This spot was far enough away from our old neighborhood than we could risk being affectionate in public. We read books together and ate flavored ice shavings, the same pink color as the late-blooming petals in the trees above us. After we graduated high school, we kept coming here in the summer. We had staked out this place as our own. It was here, two summers ago, that we decided to move in together. Last summer we came here on her birthday with a picnic basket and some water balloons. We played like children in the park till evening fell, then we walked home dripping wet and smiled at everyone who stared at us. That memory feels more real than anything going on around me right now as I stand beneath the tree where we once spread our picnic basket. Now it's summer again, and I am here alone.

I think the thing that really breaks me is how pointlessly cruel they were to her. They didn't have to shatter her limbs. Hell, she didn't have to be conscious at all for the horrific devouring of her body. If they _had_ to do it, if there was absolutely no way to alter the universe and change the story up to that point, at least they could have knocked her unconscious so she didn't feel it. They could have had that much mercy. And they didn't have to leave her lying on the floor, gasping for breath through tattered lungs. Hopelessly mutilated like a stripped apple core. They didn't have to do any of that, but they did, because they liked it. They enjoyed her suffering. I know, because the few fifth-floor residents who survived would later tell the press how the ghouls laughed hysterically as they butchered people with their kagune, how they ran them down and crowed to each other about their kill counts over the tortured screams of their victims. It was fun for them. It was sport. I lost my lover and my best friend because they wanted to amuse themselves and she was _there._

Maybe that's why I can't even begin to think of moving on. If she had died of a disease or an accident, there would be no one to be angry at. Nothing to blame but our capricious world. In that scenario, I could give myself fully to grief and let it run its course until it left me spent. When I had no more energy to hold on, I would finally have to let go of the pain of what was unalterable. But she didn't die like that, and if it hadn't been for _them,_ she wouldn't have died. She wouldn't have suffered. And the rage I feel because of that is getting in the way of everything else I try to do. Mourning, healing, looking ahead. Living like a normal human being. I can't do any of that when I know _they're_ out there somewhere. That knowledge scalds my heart like boiling water. It messes with my head. Sometimes I look around crowds and wonder if I'd be able to sense them it they were near. After all this time, perhaps they still smell of her blood.

I've been thinking, lately, that maybe I'm going about this process in the wrong order. I've been trying to ignore my anger and focus on mourning, but I'm beginning to suspect that won't work. Maybe I need to give myself to the anger and use it up before I can move on to other things. I need to channel it, harness it, _do_ something with it. I can feel that, deep inside me, it's started to take on a life of its own. And there's only one thing it wants to do with that life. Make sure they can't make anyone else feel this way ever again. The way I feel. The way they made her feel as she lay dying. If I can turn that tide of misery back onto them, I think I'll finally be able to feel something else. Not happiness, certainly, but perhaps the proper tone of grief. And then, some measure of acceptance.

It seems insane, I know. She would panic if she knew what I was thinking. But I can't stop thinking it, even here, in this place where I was happiest with her. The trees are sparser than I remember from last summer; the sky is drab and flat. Even the river water seems polluted, a sickly pale color. I feel like I'm corrupting these gentle memories of our time here with my dark thoughts. I need to do something with them. I need to use them up, and when they're gone, I can finally stop being so _angry_ all the time. She wouldn't have recognized me like this. The person I am now would have been strange to her. But she would have loved me anyway, loved me all the way back to being myself. Of that I am sure.

How to make something out of all the rage that's built up inside me? I'll start by finding the ghouls who ripped her apart. It might take a while, but that's fine with me. It's good to have a purpose in life again. And however long it takes, I know that I _will_ find them. Because, in the end, I am more like them than I could ever let myself believe.


	2. Come and Get Me

**Hey guys, don't mind me. Just messing around with some ideas for a new story. Don't know if I'll continue this or not; thoughts/opinions from readers would be appreciated to help me decide. Thank you!**

 _Find a ghoul. That's the first thing to do. Any ghoul, it doesn't matter. It's not like I have any leads right now._ I think about this in the bedroom of my new apartment, staring down three stories at the bustling street below. Two months ago I moved here, back to the 14th ward, where we lived before the attack. However, I wasn't able to bring myself to get too close to the old neighborhood. It would be too painful for me to constantly pass by all the places we used to go together. Therefore, I'm living in an area of the 14th ward that's brand new to me, near its borders with the 4th and 13th wards. I don't yet know what this new neighborhood has to offer. I haven't been outside much lately.

It's not so much a matter of finding a ghoul, I think to myself as I lie on my futon, staring around at the walls I haven't bothered to decorate. I just need to let a ghoul find me. It shouldn't be too hard. All I have to do is go out alone at night, wander the city streets and back alleys, and wait to feel a presence behind me. Right now I'm just watching the sun set over the people on the street below as they hurry past each other, intent on reaching their destinations. The 14th ward isn't a war zone, but it's not the safest of places either. I guess the police do their best.

I roll off of the futon and stand up slowly, stretching my tense back muscles. _I should eat something._ There's not much in my pantry, but I root around until I find a bag of soba noodles and some plums I bought at the open-air market. I switch on the gas dai and place a pot of water on the burner. While it heats to a boil, I return to my bedroom and consider which clothes to wear for tonight's mission. Something dark, comfortable, easy to move in. With pockets. A pair of dyed cotton pants, a black tank top, and a baggy, hooded sweater that used to belong to her. I slip them on silently, then turn to regard myself in the mirror.

I read once that men who prey on women look for specific physical mannerisms in order to pick out their potential victims. It's probably the same for ghouls. Slouched shoulders indicate low confidence. Staring at the ground means less awareness of your surroundings. A hesitant, timid attitude means you're less likely to fight back and cause trouble. And of course, physical size plays a part in it. I stare at my reflection, trying to judge myself through the eyes of a predator. I'm of average height and skinny, lean from months of turning down food. My face is as pale as a moon wafer, offset by dark eyes and coal-black hair. It's not a face that stands out as either memorably ugly or stunningly pretty. No distinct birthmarks or scars. No tattoos. My ears are pierced, but I'm not wearing earrings tonight. I look like I could disappear from a crowd and no one would notice. Slowly, I practice slouching my shoulders and lowering my head, turning back and forth to see myself from different angles. The feeling of immutability washes over me quietly, like a tide. _I am nobody, and nobody knows me._ Within that vast emptiness lies a piercing kind of freedom.

The hiss of boiling water brings me back to the kitchen, where I toss the soba noodles in the pot and slice the plums, remove the pits. It doesn't take long for my meal to be ready, and I seat myself before the fold-out table that looks over the main avenue. The sea of faces on the street are illuminated from every side by lights of restaurants and shops, neon advertisements and vehicle headlights. The streetlights are beginning to flicker on as the sun dips toward the horizon. Tokyo is such a brilliant place, even at night. There's no way it could ever disappear.

The soba noodles are warm and filling, and the plums add their rich flavor to the otherwise bland meal. I allow myself a small congratulations on managing this much. Cooking was her thing, not mine. I had a few basic dishes that I tended to stick to for nourishment, whereas she was always looking to expand her repertoire. Stir-fried shrimp. Breaded fish fillets. Italian-style pasta. I ate anything she made, never one to be picky about food. She teased me for my lack of skill in meal preparation. _What would you do without me? Live off bread and noodles forever?_

When dinner is done, I place my dishes in the sink and return to my bedroom to wait. I don't want to lose myself to anxiety, watching the shadows grow longer and darker across the floor, so I pick up a book on biology and settle atop my quilted blanket to read. The world disappears for a while into a vast, soundless void. When I emerge from my stupor of concentration, the window shows a black sky and my clock reads 11:00 pm. Perfect timing.

I fill the pockets of my sweater with my cell phone, apartment key, mace, and a long switchblade. I know knives won't work against ghouls, but I don't want to get sidetracked by any human stalkers. Tokyo can be a weird place at night. Before I leave the apartment, I glance around and take a quick inventory of everything I'll leave behind in the event of my death. Furniture, clothes, books, a bit of food, and some bittersweet memories. Nothing much worth having, really. I pull my hood over my head and turn away.

 _If you were here you would tell me not to go. But if you_ **were** _here, I'd have no reason to go, would I?_

The summer air is warm, and my sweater hugs me like a shroud of protection as I make it to the street and start to wander slowly toward the 4th ward. That's a seedy part of town. Plenty of back alleys to get lost in. Cars fly past me as I follow the main road, trying to school my body into the proper posture. _Shoulders slouched. Head down. Vacant expression._ It's not so hard. I don't know if the people I pass are looking at me. I don't spare a glance for any of them.

Once I reach the 4th ward, I depart from the main road and start following a series of streets that grow narrower and narrower. If I have to choose between two routes, I take the darker one. My senses are alert to everything around me. The pungent aroma of cheap food sold in streetside stalls. The glaring glow of neon signs advertising tattoo parlors and 'gentlemen's clubs.' The streets are littered with cigarette stubs and discarded plastics. I pass by a small park, and a group of loitering men call out to me. I keep walking as though I don't hear them. Ghouls don't congregate in groups out in the open, at least, I don't think they do. Unless they're really stupid, maybe….

A few times, I hear the clack of footsteps behind me and force myself to slow down so their owner can catch up, only to have the person pass me and continue on their way. False alarm. I check my cell phone; 1:02 am. This could take all night, or even longer if I'm unlucky (or lucky, as the case may be.) Am I doing the right things? Should I keep walking, or find a dark corner and wait there? Should I take my sweatshirt off so the scent of my flesh will be stronger?

The image of her lying in a lake of her blood, skin stripped and eyes blank comes back to me with a sudden, nauseating lurch. At that same moment, I feel a tingle run along my spinal column. _Eyes. Someone, watching._ I force myself not to glance around. _Keep walking. Shoulders slouched. Head down._ I turn from the street into an alleyway, and I feel the presence draw nearer. _That's good. Keep coming._ The glow from businesses and streetlights dies out as I move deeper into the latticework of alleys. _Look at me, what an easy target. Practically begging to be eaten._ Now I hear the footsteps closing in. _Don't run. Don't scream. Just wait for it. Come on, you bastard, come on-!_

A meaty fist connects with the side of my face and I reel into the brick wall, stunned. A man is looming over me, wearing the same kind of dark, loose clothing I am. His face is covered in a strangely shaped black mask. He lunges forward, and my jaws crack together as his fist strikes again. Pain makes the world spark in different colors. Blood gushes from my lips and I fall without a sound. His raspy breathing fills the alleyway as he glances around quickly, then slides a knife out of his belt and seizes the top of my hood. I twist away and he snarls viciously. "Take it off! Take off the hood, you stupid cunt, or I'll rip out your eyes while you're still breathing! I'm not fucking around!"

He's trying to get at my throat, to slice open a vital point that will end this struggle immediately. I feel his breath gush around the corners of his mask, and I reach up for the hand that's tangled in my hood. He growls and swipes at me one-handed. The knife grazes my collarbone as I grip his forearm like a bat and wrench it solidly to the left. A resounding _crack_ tears through the air, like a baseball being punted for a home run.

He screams in shock and lurches backward, dropping the knife and clawing at his bent arm. I quickly fill the space between us with a furious punch to his chin and another to the gut. His feet lose hold of the ground and he collapses into the far wall with a satisfying _thud._ The mask parts ways with his face and clatters to the pavement several feet away. I yank my hood back over my head and move to block him from an easy retreat. "You- gaaaah! You bitch! What the fuck? What the fuck?!" He straightens up and I see his face, though it's not much to look at- dull black eyes, a nose that looks like it's been broken several times, and a horrible gash of a mouth. His injured arm flops limply to his side as he staggers back to his feet. "How the hell did- Christ! Sonofabitch! You're not, you're not, are you…." His eyes dart back and forth, seeking me out underneath my hood. "Are you….a ghoul?"

I don't answer him, and he seems to take my silence as an affirmative. "You are, aren't you? Then what the fuck are you doing on my hunting grounds? I could kill you for that!"

"I want to ask a question." My words come out slightly slurred as I wipe my bloody mouth on my sleeve. "You give me a good answer and I'll leave."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, you little bitch? You're gonna pay for fucking up my arm! You'd better get down on your knees and beg for mercy, 'cause you just crossed the wrong guy…." As his threats ramble on, his eyes grow deep reddish black and a long, tentacle-like appendage starts rising out of the arc of his back. _Shit, seems like I have to fight some more._ With an ugly grimace he charges forward, his kagune bearing down on me like a spear. I leap to the side and it follows, swiping in a wide arc. We're making a racket now- I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the authorities arrive. _Got to move fast._ I dodge the raking kagune again and pace around him in a tight circle. I can finish this in one good shot, but the timing has to be perfect. I see my chance as he strikes again; curling my body under the unfurling appendage, I slide within its range and lunge-

A crimson knife blade strikes the outer edge of my waist; his second kagune, I realize, which he'd been holding in reserve. The flesh tears and I feel blood soak into my sweater like a bursting dam. Crashing to the ground, I tumble across the asphalt and raise my head to see him hurtling straight toward me, a savage scream of victory in his throat, kagune appendages writhing horribly overhead….but in his rush to close the kill, he's left his chest wide open.

My wound burns wickedly and I feel the its warm liquid suddenly grow cold and congeal into a solid form. It bursts from my sweater and I _scream_ like I'm being ripped open from the inside. My eyes blur and I can't see what's happening, but rough, stinking fingers are clawing at my throat for just a second before a meaty _thock_ rings out and they're jerked away. Now I can't tell which cry of pain is mine and which is his. Senses roaring, I bite down on my bloody lip and push myself off the asphalt to see the figure of my attacker sprawled several feet away, pinned to the wall by a glistening crimson spear that's pierced right through his shoulder.

The guy is screaming bloody murder, and I stand up shakily and try to collect my breath while I wait for his kagune to dissipate. Once the red appendages have vanished, I close in on him with an urgency that overrides the throbbing pain in my torso. There will be no point to any of this if I don't get something out of him before the authorities show up.

Gasping heavily, I kneel beside him and press a hand against his throat until his screams die out. "Hey, fucker," I growl, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Ready to answer my question now?"

"What the hell do you want?!" His voice is a choked whisper-moan, and I glance around quickly to make sure we won't be interrupted.

"Seven months ago, an apartment building by Nakano Broadway in the 14th ward was attacked by several ghouls. Loads of casualties. Big news story." I tighten my grip in a sharp spasm of rage. "You know anything about that?"

"Nakano….no! I don't- I don't know anything about it! I swear to god I-" He lets out another gurgling scream as I seize the spear pinning him with my other hand and give it a rough shake.

"You sure about that? Think real hard. Ghouls talk to each other, right? Somebody around here knows something about who pulled that off."

"I don't know! I swear to fucking god I don't know! Please…." He's begging now, trembling, and I don't like that; I'd prefer for him to cuss me out and fight back. Growling under my breath, I shove his hands aside and listen to the echo of voices sounding from the street. _Time's almost up._

"Then where can I go to find out? Where do ghouls get together and plan this kind of shit?"

"I don't-"

"WHERE, MOTHERFUCKER? NOW!"

"Ah, fuck! Okay! I've heard about a place in the 14th….it's called H-Helter Skelter…."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know, I swear, I've never been there! I just heard it was a place for trading information! T-the password's monochrome, it'll get you into the private section if you tell them….that's all I know! I swear, I swear!"

I want to press him more, but just then I hear a dangerous-sounding hum coming from around the corner. A deep male voice calls out, "CCG! Stay where you are and do not attempt hostility, or we will use deadly force!"

The man's face loses all remaining color and he begins to struggle weakly. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

I step away and relax my muscles, and the spear driven through his shoulder liquefies into a sodden splash of crimson. "You're done hunting humans. Don't try to fight and maybe they won't kill you."

In a sudden burst of inspiration, I hurry over to the other wall and retrieve the mask I knocked off him. Throwing one last backward glare, I clamp it over my face and take off running down the alley opposite the way I came, away from the deadly humming. Each stride feels like my side is splitting open, but the pain becomes an exhilaration the faster I move. I fly out of the alley, across a deserted road, and down another network of side streets and alleys. The few people I encounter on my way barely have enough time to turn their heads before I'm gone. _I am nobody, and nobody knows me._

I run until I make it to a wooded area, a park which I know is on the border between the 4th and 13th wards. Enveloped by thick trees and darkness, I finally remove the stifling mask and examine it more closely. It seems to be made of a combination of leather and light metal. The surface is all black, and it has intricate shapes hammered across it, giving it an avant-garde-style texture. The eyeholes are carefully placed below the brow. Someone put a lot of skill into this thing, which seems weird, considering who it belonged to. I can't imagine that unremarkable thug making something so involved.

I stuff the mask down the front of my sweatshirt before I emerge from the park and head in the direction of the 14th ward. My abdomen is still soaked, but I'm wearing black, so no one can tell that it's blood. As I walk further, the exhilaration wears off and the hurt comes rushing back. _I wish I had thought to bring pain medication. Or bandages._ _Oh well, it can't be helped._ I stick to the main road on my way back, not wanting to risk another ghoul interaction. Even as I limp through intersections and past blocks of shuttered stores, I can feel, deep within my body, the blood clotting and scar tissue beginning to form. _I'll rest for a day or two, and then the injury will be gone. It's fine. I got what I needed. Someplace to start looking for answers. Helter Skelter….whatever that means. That bastard better not have lied to me. I doubt it, though. Don't think he had the presence of mind to lie at that point. I scared the living hell out of him._

I reach my apartment building without further incident. As I wait for the elevator to take me to my floor, I think carefully over the events of the night. I've never been a violent person, but all of that came to me so easily. I don't remember feeling guilt or fear. It was almost like acting out a memorized routine, something I've done many times before. Or something I know by instinct.

In my apartment, I hide the ghoul mask underneath my towels and proceed to gingerly remove my clothes. I'll have to soak them in some sort of solution to get the blood out. For now, I step into the shower and clean my wound with soap and disinfectant. My abdomen, left leg, and breast are all coated in dried blood, and I slowly knead the soap into my skin until it's all washed down the drain. I was too careless, attacking him without noticing his other kagune. That could have ruined everything. I have to be more discerning in the future.

For some reason, his dumb, astonished face and fearful words come back to me as I dry myself and search for bandages in the linen closet. _You are, aren't you? A ghoul…._

A ghoul? That stupid idiot. I stand naked before the mirror, carefully wrapping strips of gauze around my waist. The bleeding has stopped and the wound is quickly scarring over. Scoffing under my breath, I search through my clean laundry for underwear and a pair of mercifully soft pajamas. I hang my bloodstained clothes up in the shower and check to make sure I've locked the door. It's not until I slide between my quilt and futon that I realize I really am tired, and have been for a while. As much as there is to ponder, it isn't long before the light of conscious thought goes out and I give myself once more to the emotionless void of sleep.


End file.
